


Fiercest Purpose

by sweet potato (swt_potato)



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Season: Twilight Mirage, Twilight Mirage Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:07:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22326832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swt_potato/pseuds/sweet%20potato
Summary: What does the relationship between Excerpt and Divine look like in the twilight years of the Divine Fleet?
Relationships: Belgard/⸢Signet⸣ (Friends at the Table)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 6
Collections: Secret Samol 2019





	Fiercest Purpose

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunspeared](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunspeared/gifts).



She runs a hand along a smooth, pale wall as she circles the room. The metal is cold. She expects it to be warm to the touch, and does not know why.

_I enjoy that passage that you took your name from. It is one of my favourites, too._

Signet pauses, removes her hand from the wall. She knows better than to look around for the source of the sound, or a recognizable face to speak with, but for an instant she wishes she could see one.

“I’ve been reading the Parable of the Watcher since I was little,” she says. “Now that I’ve studied the whole Assemblage, the choice feels a bit childish. But picking anything different would feel dishonest.”

_Signet, I am glad that you are here._

Signet’s blond hair fans out in wavy curls that land just below her shoulder blades. Her emerald robes fit well and breathe easily. She walks toward the centre of the room. Loops and ropes of thin golden thread hang lazily from the ceiling. Signet touches one — it is springy, surprisingly pliable — and gently waves it from side to side.

_You performed very well at the ceremony last week. I hoped I might see you soon afterward._

She takes a strand of rope and twists it a few times, then releases. It spins itself straight, then winds in the other direction. Corrects, overcorrects. She remembers seeing a demonstration as a young child, someone tangling and untangling a strand of the mirage in much the same way. Transfixed, she watched the million colours of dusk and dawn wind and unwind themselves. As the rope catches glints of light from around the room, Signet can imagine that she is seeing something infinitely more complex. Twist, untwist.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner. I know my responsibilities. It’s just been busy.”

_I know. You do not owe me any apologies. It is nice that you are here now._

Signet lets the rope fall still. She finds a thick golden loop to sit in and does, rocking gently forward and backward.

“The ceremonies are the easy part. And the services, and the processions. I understand how to speak with the congregation and help them find what they’re looking for.”

A holographic panel in the far wall is lit faintly in an ice-blue; Signet stares at it.

“I just don’t know what this—” She gestures with one hand, holds on to the rope with the other. “—is all for yet. I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.” 

Belgard is silent for several moments as Signet rocks in her swing.

“What we’re supposed to be doing, I suppose.”

_One of the exciting truths is that we do not need to know, yet. It is different every time_.

Signet swings. She does not want to think, right at this moment, about “every time”. Cold eyes stare at her from the past, and she is not sure she wants to be part of a history right now.

_To start, would you like to tell me something?_

Signet slows the swing to rest and lands lightly. A large golden beetle skitters along the floor with the patter of rain on a tin roof. She has never been afraid of things that crawl. It comes to a stop, and she picks it up. It smells like dust and a warm hearth.

_What do you see?_

“A bug?”

The cracks and crevasses in the beetle’s chitinous shell light up a pale blue, though maybe it’s just reflecting the light from the far wall. Images pass lightly through Signet’s mind. Faces. Symbols. People, each one holding a wooden box.

It is the closest to a laugh she has heard from Belgard. _My guilty pleasure. It is a small thing, but will you read their names for me?_

Signet swallows down dry air, eyes staring back, an unwanted history spread out in front of her. But she starts to read.

They pass the afternoon together. Signet reads until Belgard tells her that she has had her fill. They speak in short sentences with long pauses; Belgard discusses pasts, and Signet spins them into presents and futures. She runs a hand along every rope and thread.

_Signet, I want to apologize for something in advance._

Signet paces the circumference of the room. “What do you mean?”

_I am afraid that I will not be able to protect you._

“I mean, I don’t need…. Isn’t that what you do, though? Protect people?”

_It is my duty and my purpose. And that is why I ask for absolution, in case I fail._

The eyes look on, the histories unravel, and she pushes them away.

“It’s ok. It’s fine. We’re in this together, and we’ll do everything we can to help each other and the Fleet.”

The Exuvia hums a tune, low and unrecognizable. 

* * *

A tug on one golden rope, then a second. She climbs up a low-hanging loop, braces herself between the two strands, then leaps to another, passing through the holographic display of the space outside. Dancing in turn, Belgard streaks through the shimmering field of dusky orange and navy. She extends a shielded limb to intercept a missile, then adjusts course to impose a barrier between Gumption, rapidly repairing external damage, and an incoming light craft. The skirmish ends quickly. The Earth Cult-piloted ships disperse.

The news outlets report the death of “only one Divine”. Signet chokes on a dead laugh. “Only one Divine.”

“In what world do we call Germane ‘only one Divine’?” She sits on the floor of the metal room, the Exuvia in her lap. She plays with a thin rope. “Food production will slow. Our friends will hurt and starve for this — we’ll lose people, more than just the pilots we already have.”

‘We followed a blue stream down ancient rock, carrying the ⸢Mountain⸣ with it.’ Signet had met Germane’s Excerpt only twice. Mountain was brash and loud, overly competitive, and Signet did not care for him. He should not be dead.

_The death of Germane is a tragedy. As is the death of Mountain. I wish we lived in a time when we could thrive, not count every small loss as a hidden blessing. You did everything you could in the combat. I will still consider it a blessing that at least you are alive._

“Why?”

_What do you mean?_

Signet traces circular patterns along the hard floor. Her kinetic sash slips and hangs loosely beneath one sleeve of her flight suit. She ignores it, and begins to untie her hair from its tight ponytail.

“Why care? How many dozens of me have you seen fall in battle, or to sickness, or to whatever misfortune? Why even get attached?”

_Signet, we do not need to—_

“But I kind of want to.” She stands up. The sash falls loose; she picks it up. She waves blond hair from her face. “If this is a partnership, and we need to be on the same page, then I think it’s worth knowing why you feel any kind of connection at all.”

Belgard takes a moment before speaking. _I care because it is my duty, and my love, and my life. Yes, I have had many Excerpts. Each has been different, and wonderful, and unique. In your work as a symbol among the members of the fleet, you may meet hundreds of people, or thousands. You will listen to their troubles and give to them a piece of yourself. I will meet so few — my Excerpts, and the others in our order. Each one will be a gift. Each one I will devote myself to loving and protecting._

Signet leans against a wall, the Exuvia in her arm, tapping her fingers gently on its surface. They are all around her now — the ghosts, the faces, the histories. “Is that why you ask me to read to you? Because you’ve forgotten them, and you need me to remind you?”

_Signet_. Belgard’s voice is impossibly soft. _I do not ask you to read so that I can remember them. I ask you to read so that I can let them go._

* * *

It is a minor holiday — the birthday of some saint or scholar of the Assemblage, who has been lost to history in all but name. Signet attends a ceremony at a small chapel on Seance. She stands up to lead the congregation in a prayer; as she does, a bit of the mirage streams softly into the room. A bed of virtual wildflowers springs up around her in blues and yellows, spreading around the room to nudge the ankles of the churchgoers. Signet catches a faint whiff of honey and lavender.

She stays behind after the service. Shakes hands, offers kind words. A woman in a white dress and a sunhat clasps Signet’s hands to thank her for her service, insists on buying her a meal. In the thin, messy streets, a few vendors stand behind food and craft stalls. They gesture towards elaborate displays, virtual dragons and eagles that chase each other in the air above the streets, then collapse into the thousand colours of the dawn. Signet and the devotee eat roasted vegetables off wooden skewers, seasoned with salt and lime. They share a glass of red wine, and a second, laughing and exchanging stories. They turn a corner through the marketplace and step into a digital alleyway, where shifting displays of street art in bright neon slide along walls and walkways.

_It looks like you are having a nice time_ , says Belgard, as the devotee bids Signet farewell and turns to leave. Signet wants to call the rush of emotion annoyance, but can’t quite. There is a secret joy at being acknowledged, and a warmth at hearing Belgard’s voice.

She returns to Thyrsus shortly thereafter. She enters the room carrying a glass of wine and taps it against one of the cold metal walls. The low click echoes through the chamber.

“Cheers.”

_Cheers_.

Signet finds a favourite length of rope, one which hangs low enough that it lies flat on the ground for a stretch. She sit down on top of it, sinking in like an armchair. She holds the wine above her head and stares into it, swirling the glass gently, watching it reflect violet, burgundy, ruby.

“I wish you could have been there. The market was so beautiful.”

_It was a good day?_

“It was a good day.”

* * *

In the back row of a shadowed auditorium somewhere on Mirrors, Signet watches a young musician cry out a fierce ballad. Their voice is raw and captivating, and echoes around the cavernous room. Signet holds the Exuvia tightly, as if she could send a clearer sound to Belgard through pressure alone. A dark purple hood covers her hair.

_Will you meet them after the performance?_ Belgard asks.

Signet shakes her head. “Not like that,” she whispers.

The musician repeats a simple but haunting melody on a keyboard, harmonizing with their vocals. It reminds Signet a bit of an old hymn, one she first learned to sing when she was a child. A few whirls of virtual light pattern the edges of the stage.

_They seem somewhat removed from your musical style,_ Belgard notes.

“Maybe. But not from yours.”

Belgard does not speak, and so Signet can’t exactly hear her voice. But for a moment she feels Belgard’s presence, the phantom click of a line of communication opening, the warmth of a low fire after a long hike through the cold.

Signet does not meet with the musician after the show in her capacity as Excerpt. She does wait among a small group of people, hood tight to her face, to ask for an autograph from the musician, which she receives in sparkling virtual ink on a small card.

When she returns to Thyrsus, Signet places the signature gently inside Belgard’s cockpit, leaning against one wall, and sits quietly in a golden harness. That open channel of communication. The warmth.

* * *

Her short hair clinging tightly to the back of her neck. The rustle of the sash against her azure flight suit. Eyes closed in an aimless meditation.

Signet is tired, and she knows it, and Belgard knows it. Three sorties in three days: her movements slowing, her piloting imprecise. She should be in the cockpit now, she knows. Knows that her and Belgard’s presence could be the only thing standing in the way of yet another dead Divine.

Instead, Signet is sitting in an open-air courtyard on Thyrsus, her back to a tall stone pillar, hands pressed into the thin shrub grass blanketing the ground. Stars flicker into the empty vision of her closed eyes.

Belgard says nothing. Signet knows that she is waiting, that she will not question or impose at a time like this. Signet is almost angry at this — doesn’t deserve, she thinks, that tenderness or that love. She knows that it is freely given, and she knows that she must give freely in return. So she opens her eyes, and stands up.

* * *

_Signet._

“I know.”

A small moment of respite from the mire of combat. The Divines all around them are marked with scars of pain. Some are under repair. Some make their last stand. The darting ships of their enemies have passed between sunset clouds, leaving the space empty and motionless for a second or two.

_We need to start moving. The Earth Cult ships could be back at any moment._

Signet’s muscles clench, and she rises up to her full height within the golden harness, blond hair streaking behind her. Then she slumps.

“I’m trying, I—”

_Only a little further to go now._

The mirage around them is silent, terribly tender. Strong, but so easily shaped. Twist, untwist. Wind, unwind. Signet does not move.

Belgard’s voice comes through her mind gently.

_If you cannot… I will do what I can to protect them_. Enough time has passed that Signet knows exactly what she means, knows every implication behind that “I”.

“What are you talking about?” asks Signet, arms shaking, head raised in a sudden shock. “You need me there.”

_You can still make it to safety. I have plenty of strength left to keep them all alive. No more Divines need to die today, nor any more Excerpts._

“You’re not seriously suggesting…” She trails off. Now that the offer is on the table, her body aches with it. Her mind floods with music, the taste of wine, life. Everything that she was looking forward to sharing with Belgard, one day at a time.

_Back when we met, I worried that I might not be able to protect you. Now, I have figured out how. If I can offer you nothing else, I have this to give you._

They keep arguing, keep discussing, through words and feelings and images. They both know there’s nothing more to say. A history stretching behind Signet. A sea of faces, and hers the only one living among them. Signet can survive. She does not need to be another forgotten body. There are many ways to do one’s duty, she thinks.

And there are many forms that love can take. As the flight suit carries her through the cold mirage, Signet realizes that love can look like sacrifice, or devotion, or humility. Lonely years will pass. Eventually, she will learn that love can look like purpose.


End file.
